“On a cursory examination I’d say they were also done with the cricket bat, and that the blood you see there was transferred from the head wounds.”
“So that happened after he was dead?”
“Well, he may have still been clinging on to some vestiges of life, but it was done after the head wounds, I’d say, yes. Probably a lot of internal damage. Again, the postmortem will tell you much more.”
“Sex crime?”
“That’s for you to decide. I’d certainly say that the evidence points that way. Otherwise, why attack the genitals after the head?”
“A hate crime, perhaps? Antigay?”
“Again, it’s possible,” said Burns. “Or it could simply be a jealous lover. Such things aren’t unknown, and the element of overkill points in that direction, too. Whatever it is, you’re certainly dealing with some high-octane emotions here. I’ve never seen such rage.”
You can say that again, thought Annie. “Was there any sexual interference?”
“As far as I can tell, there was no anal or oral penetration, and there are no obvious signs of semen on or around the body. As you can see, though, it’s rather a mess in there, very hard to be certain of such things, so again I’d suggest you wait for the full SOCO report and Dr. Glendenning’s postmortem before forming any conclusions.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Annie. “I will.”
And with that, Dr. Burns marched off down the stairs.
Annie was just about to follow him when Stefan Nowak came over, a small leather-bound book in his gloved hand. “Thought you might find this useful,” he said. “It was on the desk.”
Annie took the book from him and looked inside. It was an address book. There didn’t seem to be many entries, but there were two that interested her in particular: Mark Hardcastle on Branwell Court, and one written simply as “Mother,” with a phone number and address in Longborough, Gloucestershire. “Thanks, Stefan,” said Annie. “I’ll inform the locals and make sure someone goes out there to break the news.” Annie also remembered Maria Wolsey saying something about Silbert’s mother being wealthy, which was something to follow up on, in addition to his bank accounts. Money was always a good motive for murder.
Annie bagged the book and watched the SOCOs at work for a few minutes, then she went in the same direction Dr. Burns and Doug Wilson had gone. She needed some fresh air, and they wouldn’t be finished up here for a while. In the back garden, she found Wilson sipping water and talking to Detective Superintendent Gervaise, who had just arrived. To Annie’s surprise, Chief Constable Reginald Murray was also there.
“Ma’am, sir,” said Annie.
“DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise. “The chief constable is here because he was a friend of the victim’s.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say ‘friend,’ ” said Murray, fingering his collar. “But I knew Laurence from the golf club. We played a few holes now and then, met at some club functions. A murder on the Heights. This is a terrible business, DI Cabbot, terrible. It needs to be settled as soon as possible. I assume DCI Banks has been informed?”
“He’s on his way, sir,” said Annie.
“Good,” said Murray. “Good. I know ACC McLaughlin thinks highly of him. The quicker we get to the bottom of this, the better.” He glanced at Gervaise. “You will tell Banks... I mean...?”
“I’ll keep him on a short leash, sir,” said Gervaise.
Annie smiled to herself. Everyone knew that Banks wasn’t at his best around the rich and privileged. “Would you like to examine the crime scene, sir, seeing as you’re here?” she asked.
Murray turned pale. “I don’t think so, DI Cabbot. I have every confidence in the officers under my command.”
“Of course, sir, as you wish.”
Murray wandered off, not known for his iron stomach, hands behind his back, to all intents and purposes as if he were examining the rosebushes.
Gervaise gave Annie a stern look. “That was hardly necessary,” she said. “Anyway, how goes it so far? Any immediate thoughts?”
Annie handed Doug Wilson Silbert’s address book and asked him to go back to the station and get in touch with the Gloucestershire police. He seemed relieved to be leaving the Heights. Then Annie turned to Gervaise. “Not much yet, ma’am.” She summarized what Dr. Burns had told her. “The timing certainly fits a murder-suicide theory,” she added.
“You think Mark Hardcastle did this?”
“Possibly, yes,” said Annie. “As far as we know, he drove back to Eastvale from London on Thursday. He had a flat near the center of town, but it looked as if he only lived there part-time. Maria Wolsey at the theater said he and Laurence Silbert were practically living together. Anyway, he could either have gone back to Branwell Court and come up here Friday morning, or he could have come straight here and stopped over Thursday night.
“All we know is that Silbert was killed between nine a.m. and one p.m. on Friday, and Hardcastle hanged himself between one p.m. and three p.m. that same afternoon. Also, the amount of blood on Hard-castle’s body was inconsistent with the few scratches he might have got while climbing the tree to hang himself. Grainger, the man who sold him the rope, also said he had blood on him when he called in at the shop, and that he was oddly subdued and smelled of alcohol.”
“So it may be cut and dried, after all,” said Gervaise, almost to herself. She stood up. “Well, let’s hope we didn’t drag DCI Banks back from his weekend off for nothing.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Annie through gritted teeth. “Let’s hope not.”
Getting out of London was bad enough, but the Ml was an even worse nightmare. There were roadworks near Newport Pagnell, where the motorway was reduced to one lane for two miles, though there wasn’t a workman in sight. Later, two lanes were closed because of an accident just north of Leicester. The Porsche ticked along nicely, when it wasn’t at a complete standstill, and Banks was glad he’d decided to keep it. It was shabby enough now for him to feel comfortable in it. The sound system was great, too, and Nick Lowe’s “Long Limbed Girl” sounded just fine.
Banks was still annoyed at Detective Superintendent Gervaise for giving the order to call him back. He knew it wasn’t Annie’s fault, no matter how much she seemed to have relished the task. It was true, of course; they were understaffed. They didn’t even have a replacement for Kevin Templeton yet, and he’d been gone since March. It was also true that, if nothing else, the two deaths would generate a lot of paperwork and media interest, a lot of questions to be asked and answered. Young “Harry Potter” showed promise, but he was still too wet behind the ears to be trusted with something like this, and if the crime involved Eastvale’s gay community, such as it was, Detective Sergeant Hatchley could prove more of a liability than an asset. Nick Lowe finished and Banks switched to Bowie’s Pin Ups.
Though Banks had met Sophia during a difficult murder case, he realized this was the first time he had been called away from her on urgent business since they had been together. It was something that had happened with monotonous regularity throughout his career and marriage, and something that his ex-wife Sandra had complained of more than once, until she had decided to follow her own path and leave him. Even the kids had complained when they were growing up that they never saw their dad.
But things had been quiet recently. No murders since he had met Sophia. Not even a spate of serious burglaries or sexual assaults, just the usual day-to-day monotony, like stolen traffic cones. For once, Eastvale had been behaving. Until now. And it would be this weekend.